


Io, Saturnalia!

by QuillerQueen



Series: Bread and Games [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gen, Minor Belle/Red Riding Hood | Ruby, ancient rome au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 12:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17183345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: The ancient festival of Saturn is here, and Regina and Robin seek a safe haven where noble matron and lowly gladiator can love each other freely and openly - even just for a week.Written for the OQ Advent Calendar 2018, this story works as either a standalone or as (future) part of the Bread and Games verse.





	Io, Saturnalia!

**_I. Dies Solis_ **

It is the best of times; it is the worst of times. 

It is the time to relax the rule of reason and regulations; it is the time for foolishness and tomfoolery. It is the season of darkness waning, and the rebirth of light as golden Apollo takes the reigns firmly in hand. It is the week for joy and merrymaking; it is an excuse for extravagance and excess, where some would gain a glimpse into Elysium and some descend directly to the depths of Tartarus.

In short, the festival of Saturnalia is may be in some ways like all others and yet knows no equal.

Rome is decked out in a festive cloak of gold and green. From her most imposing temple towering on Capitoline Hill down to the poorest hovel in the city’s slums, swaths of fragrant evergreen cascade down walls and twirl around columns, and wreaths of holly have been hammered to doorways. Trees and shrubs in gardens and parks are adorned with golden suns, moons, and stars for all the world to admire.

And it seems all the world has gathered right here, right now.

Regina is standing in the Forum Romanum, one hand clutching Roland’s, the other gripping Henry’s shoulder. The crowd is swelling still, growing by the minute, cresting like a wave and sending them a-sway as it squeezes and compresses around them, then settles briefly before the next surge. Roaring like a stormy sea on which she’s only barely adrift, it sets Regina’s nerves on fire and sends her heart on a wild stampede. Her breaths are shallow— _breathe, Regina, breathe. In_ _…and out_. The smile she cracks for Roland’s sake only has Henry pressing into her side with a knowing, consoling frown, and it certainly doesn’t fool Robin either.

Robin, who’s standing close, closer than either of them would normally dare risk. Robin, solid at her side, braced behind her back, with a hand on the hilt of his gladius, ready to protect his domina as befits a bodyguard, a gladiator, a slave—ready, in reality, to protect them all, to protect his family, though law and custom won’t hear of such. Robin, whispering reassurances as she fights back against the rising tide of anxiety.

Not much longer, she knows.

Soon the priests of Saturn will emerge from the temple in the north-western corner of the Forum, and loosen the woollen bonds around the god’s feet. The roar of the crowd will fade into a whisper as they watch the sacred rites, all faces turned to the statue of the god of liberation. Roland will scramble to see over their heads, and Regina will hoist him on her hip, the knot in her belly loosening as she focuses on the boys’ beaming faces. Once the libations are done and the god is given his due, his image will be seated in a sumptuous couch to preside over the public banquet.

And so it is—and so it continues, like every year, with an explosion of movement and sound. Pandemonium breaks out. People are pushing and shoving, laughing even as bruises bloom, and gorging on the feast Regina wants no part in.

But she’s the wife of a governor, has the duties of a noble matron and a public image to uphold. Leopold has eyes everywhere, watching her every move even from thousands of miles away. She feels those eyes on her now, feels them burning holes through her as she weaves between people and tables, following a path Robin’s forging ahead. She greets Leopold’s dependents with a curt nod but rarely a smile to spare. Only the bare minimum to fulfil the social quota—that’s more than Leopold has ever done for her, anyway.

From the outskirts of a large group surrounding her mother, ever the socialite, Regina’s father gives her a small, resigned wave. Regina waves back, moving past the throng in the middle of which must be Snow, handing out fistfuls of silver denarii to the clamouring poor. They change direction quite abruptly, and from the rigid set of Robin’s shoulders Regina suspects the presence of the feared censor, Rumplestiltskin, and catches his dwindling cackle mere moments later. Midas and George spot her but, thank the gods, make no attempt to engage her when there are voters to woo and sponsors to seduce.

She’ll have to deal with them all in a few days again, there’s no escaping it—but for now, with as much poise and composure as she can muster, Regina flees.

The streets of the Palatine are packed, fit to bursting with merrymakers, some of which are already in an advanced state of inebriation. The white walls of the domus gleam in the pale sun. They’re not usually this inviting, nor does she often crave what little safety they offer. The street-facing shops, like all businesses in Rome, are closed for the holiday, and so they pass through the entrance hall and into the atrium without interruption.

“Can we eat now, Regina?” Roland implores, wide-eyed and giddy still with excitement.

They shouldn’t, should bathe early and then gather for dinner, but she’ll allow a snack, of course she will.

“He’s all right,” Robin soothes after the boys have made a dash for the kitchen, stepping closer, too close again, and they really shouldn’t, but neither seems able to resist.

They’ve talked about it a dozen times over—how this is neither Henry’s nor Roland’s first Saturnalia, that the rituals aren’t all that engaging for them aside from a few moments, that they can easily forego a rowdy public affair for a quieter feast at home. Still there’s that twinge of guilt gnawing at her. How could it not, when her pathetic issues are stopping the boys from enjoying themselves to the fullest?

“They’re both all right—domina,” he adds smoothly, and she knows they’re no longer alone even before Clodia rushes to her side and steals her away to exchange last instructions.

* * *

Stationed at the entrance to the bathroom, Robin observes the goings on as the household makes the last preparations. His ears are attuned to the sounds of turmoil. The clink of the dishes, and the light-hearted banter between cooks and maids soon to be relieved of duty for a few long-coveted days. Roland and Henry’s giggles as they take their bath, and the slosh of water as Regina finishes hers (Clodia’s been dismissed, fluttering happily away with an armful of purple silk).

It’s a rare occasion for her to enjoy some privacy. It’s rarer yet for Robin to happen to be unengaged, and almost unheard of for the two to coincide. No wonder all manner of thought steals upon him. To the surface float memories of hurried kisses and urgent touches, stolen in dark niches with hardly a moment to properly savour. Were he to seek her out now, they wouldn’t get more than that—but they’ve learned to cherish the most fleeting of moments, so perhaps he should…

Regina certainly seems to think so. Wrapped in furs to stave off the chill, she beckons him to escort her upstairs. She’s measured, official even as they pass through the corridors, but the moment they reach her bedroom she’s wrapping her fingers around his bicep and pulling him inside, slamming the door shut and leaning back against the wood for good measure.

“Thank you,” she whispers, “for being there this afternoon.”

It’s his job, to escort and protect her wherever she goes, but of course that’s not what she really means, is it?

“Feeling better, love?” He reaches to brush back an unruly strand of hair, letting his finger trail down her cheek.

She sighs softly, leaning into his palm.

“A little.”

“Not much though?”

“Later. After tonight.” Regina bites her lip, tamping down a blooming smile. She’s cautious when it comes to hope, but still can’t do a thing about the sparkle in her eyes or the giddiness colouring her voice when she adds: “Six days.”

“Six days,” he repeats, and who cares if he’s grinning like a fool? Six whole days, spent mostly in anonymity with this marvellous woman and their brilliant boys. It might be more than his heart can handle, judging by the cartwheels it’s already performing in anticipation.

He leans in for a kiss, a chaste peck aimed at her cheek because once again they’re pressed for time, and soon enough they will finally, _finally_ not be.

Regina has other ideas though, turns her head just so, and his lips land on hers instead. It’s a clumsy affair, awkward and lopsided, and it makes them both chuckle. Her hands come up to frame his face and hold him in place while she regales him with a series of playful kisses, tiny things gradually deepening as her tongue ventures forth and her body presses up to his. The furs irk her though, bar from the contact she craves. Growling in frustration, she struggles to shrug it off until its pooling at their feet. She’s warm, and soft, and absolutely stunning. Clad in no more than a woollen tunic and the scent of rosewater, she’s all supple flesh under his palm as she hikes her leg up, choking back a moan when his hand rubs up and down her thigh.

And he should probably resist, he was going to pamper and savour after all, has sworn to treat her to more than the usual quick fuck… But gods help him, she seems past caring, impatient, and sloppy, and wondrously enthusiastic as she swipes her tongue along his jawline, sending a stab of pleasure through him—and fuck it, they can have this now _and_ savour each other la—

“Domina, permission to enter.”

Regina gasps as the door rattles behind her, pushing back against it to keep the bloody son-of-a-Bacchae on the other side while she and Robin sort themselves out. She’s flushed and panicked, but her eyes are hard, and Robin tamps down the urge to put himself between her and the intruder. Clenching his fists, he stands back instead as she swings the door open.

“I don’t remember granting it, Sidney,” Regina spits.

“I was only worried, domina,” the man simpers. “Your security seems to have abandoned his post.”

“Robin’s not the one out of line here. You are.”

“What’s he doing in your bedroom? Is he bothering you?”

The presumptuous tone has Robin gritting his teeth. Who in Tartarus does this tosser think he is to demand anything of her? The answer of course is Leopold’s lackey, his spy, a pathetic snitch. Sidney’s sick obsession with Regina doesn’t help matters either. The man’s lecherous gaping, by her own quiet admission, makes Regina’s skin crawl, and in Robin it awakens a murderous rage. And they can do exactly nothing about it, for Hispania may be a thousand miles removed, but still not quite far enough to keep a suspicious possessive husband away.

While Robin quietly fumes, Regina levels Sidney with an icy stare and a ready retort.

“Robin was helping me move my clothes chest,” she says. “You’re the one who barged into my room without permission. Don’t do that again.”

“Yes, domina,” Sidney grovels in that sleazy way of his, that obnoxious glint in his downcast eyes. “I will be more careful.”

Robin can’t contain himself anymore.

“That would be best. I’d hate to mistake you for a thug. The consequences,” he grits coolly, “could be dire. They still might be,” he mutters when the door closes behind the bastard.

Regina takes both his hands, rubbing his still-white knuckles.

“No, Robin,” she shakes her head. “It’s not worth it. Let him spy. You’re much better at sneaking around, he’ll never catch us.”

He almost did though, just then, didn’t he?

With the enemy gone, her armour is cast off, and she just looks…tired. There’s no hiding the traces of fear left in Sidney’s wake now, what with the slump of her shoulders and pleading eyes.

“Leopold trusts him. There’s a better chance he’ll stay away with Sidney doing his bidding here.”

He hates this, hates Leopold even though they’ve never met, hates the nonexistent protections the laws of Rome offer her (sure, there are a few laid down in the books, but practise is a different story entirely). He hates his own position and his helplessness because legally he is at the mercy of everyone, always threading on eggshells. He hates that he can’t do more, that they can’t do more—but it’s the reality, and there’s no point denying it.

If it keeps her bastard of a husband pacified, and far away, Robin is willing to compromise.

* * *

 

The smell of slowly roasting suckling pig and the distinctive aroma of garum sauce permeate the air and tickle Robin’s nostrils.

Everyone is kept well-fed in this household, and Regina never misses a chance to sneak him a choice piece of every delicacy to grace the table, but this is a rare feast even so. It’s like a vault of plenty that never empties. It tricks his senses, belies the disgust churned up in his stomach by Sindey’s machinations, and makes his mouth water in anticipation.

Every single couch in the large triclinium is occupied by members of the household, lounging and chatting with a liberty not afforded them on an ordinary day. They’re slaves and freedmen, indistinguishable to the eye because their heads are covered with the conical hats typical of the season—with only a handful that, like Robin, have decided to forego this tradition after Regina had offered the unheard-of option, and donned evergreen crowns instead.

 _He snuck in, as he does once in a while, under the pretext of receiving last-minute orders for the next day’s outings. Usually he catches her about ready for bed, or under the covers already, but that night she had her hands full—of_ pilei _, it turned out when he stepped closer._

_The carved chest she was bending over was brimming with them—felt hats, conic in shape once though in many cases misshapen with use. One for each member of the household, as custom would have it, for a short seven days. There was one for Robin, too._

_The thought filled him with an unpleasant sinking sensation, an indistinct unease at the pit of his stomach._

_“Robin?” She turned in his arms, squinting up at him in the candlelight. He’d yet to kiss her, an oversight all too rare, and one he was quick to remedy._

_She returned the kiss, but soon pulled away, linking her hands behind his neck and scratching lightly the way he likes._

_“What’s wrong?”_

_“I'm all right,” he sighed, eyes closed at her soothing touch. That earned the hair at his nape a small but pronounced tug, and he could just tell Regina's eyebrow had shot up with scepticism. “Just...uncomfortable, I suppose?”_

_“With…?”_

_“Those.” He gestured vaguely in the hats’ direction, fishing for words, struggling to capture the root of the heaviness in his chest. “The idea of wearing one. I—I want the freedom it stands for. I want it so much it hurts.  Knowing it's no more than a costume to commemorate some myth of bygone equality…stripped of meaning…I don't know, it gets to me, is all.”_

_Regina_ _’s hands stilled, coaxing his eyes open. She worried her lip, watching him with an expression so soft it was a caress in and of itself._

_“You don't have to wear it,” she said._

_“Ah, wouldn't that be fodder for talk.”_

_There was already ample speculation surrounding them, barely contained, the precarious balancing act at constant risk of breaking into pieces with the smallest incentive. Breaking with tradition like that? It might just be enough to bring them crashing down._

_“Not if there's more of us.” Regina tilted her head, let her hands travel from his nape to his shoulders and down his arms, where they settled with a small squeeze. “You know,” she drawled with a smirk, “I wasn't going to say anything, but you couldn't really pull it off anyway.”_

_Laughter bubbled out of him, lifting that weight off his chest._

_In that moment Fortuna seemed near and Saturn not too far away._

So that’s how Robin and a few others find themselves hatless—but that doesn’t mean they’ve broken with the other traditions pertaining to dress code. They’re a bright-coloured motley in their festive clothes. Here’s Archie, Henry’s private tutor, in canary yellow. There’s Clodia the handmaid with a love of all things gaudy and purple. On the far end, sitting up rather rigidly and as blue as her dress, is poor Dorothy, to whom all of this is new and unbelievable and unlike anything she’d ever experienced in the bygone days in Capua. Zelena, too, seems highly uncomfortable, fuming silently as she sets a silver platter in front of her petrified handmaid. Despite her protestations and a vicious argument with her sister, Zelena has so far been following Regina’s example, topping up goblets with honeyed wine and serving platters of sweet breads and fruit to those who serve them throughout the year.

For tonight, as for the whole week of Saturnalia, the roles are reversed—a custom observed with great care and, in this house at least, to the fullest extent.

“Papa, is it time yet?” Roland demands hopefully, hopping about, utterly beside himself with excitement.

Robin can’t help himself—he springs from his seat and grabs Roland by the waist, throwing him up in the air only to catch him again in a bout of giggles. He’d gone so long without the company of his boy, and even though in the past couple of months things have much improved, that dreadful time still sends a painful stab through his heart at times.

“Not quite, m’boy.”

Accompanied by the merry melody of pipes, song and dance soon ensue, and Roland, ever the life of a party, waddles off again to join the dancers. Robin’d rather like to keep his strategically selected spot, to observe and step in should things get out of hand. He watches from the sidelines, tapping his foot and munching on a spice cookie.

It strikes him, again and again, how much Roland and Henry look and act like true brothers. They’re dressed in matching tunics, sporting gilded laurel wreaths on their heads, and they’re presently in stitches over each other’s imitations of some great orator or other. It’d been Roland’s idea to dress as a senator. _Because I_ _’m only rabble, see?_ And Henry, bless his heart, firmly told him he is no such thing but still agreed to humour him, even if it means wearing the boring attire of everyday for him.

No sooner does Regina reappear from the kitchen than Roland materialises by her side.

“R’gina! It _is_ time!”

The cake is enormous, with generous handfuls of almonds sprinkled on top. Not only is it a culinary masterpiece but it hides the token that’ll determine this week’s _Saturnalicius princeps._ This once-in-a-year position is one Roland very much aspires to—not that he needs to be specially _tasked_ with creating mischief to do so.

“Oh for Neptun’s sake,” Zelena proclaims with her usual dramatic air. “Can’t we just draw lots?”

“We could,” Regina shrugs with a sweet smile that’s perhaps a tad tight around the edges, “but we won’t. Because as someone has very wisely pointed out, cake makes everything better.”

“It was me, I said that!” Roland exclaims, pointing at his chest, drawing laughter and exaggerated compliments.

Henry, hovering nearby with an amused smile, slices the cake at his mother’s request, and helps hand out a piece each to everyone. Robin oversees the drinks, making sure while everyone reaches for their wine to wash the cake down with, the boys receive only grape juice. Everyone digs in, eyeing Roland with anything between hope and sympathy. His chances at success are rather slim after all. But alas—

“Got it!” Roland cries out, and next he’s spitting something into his palm and waving it triumphantly in the air. It glitters golden—an aureus, then, and Robin blinks at the lavishness of the gesture. He’s no time to dwell though, for Roland is already issuing a decree by which all dancing is to cease and the best storyteller must tell a tale. Henry blushes a vivid crimson, but he climbs onto a stool and launches into some fantastical fable of his own invention.

* * *

When the boys have been put to bed and the triclinium turned into a house of gamble with dice rolling and jests flowing, Robin slips out and into the kitchen, where he finds Regina drying dishes. While it is customary for the masters to include the household in the meal, they rarely serve it themselves, much less deal with the actual cooking or cleanup. She’s really going the extra mile, isn’t she?

 Much as she’s done for his son, over and over again.

“Roland’s been going on about this for weeks,” he says softly, muttering an apology when she jumps at his closeness (he likes to announce his presence beforehand with a louder step, but the constant need for secrecy doesn’t oft give him a chance to). “But with such a large cake, and so many candidates for the position…” Grabbing a cloth from the counter and a goblet from the sink, he leans over and, overcome by affection, presses a kiss to Regina’s temple. “Quite the fortunate coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

She turns around slowly, a sigh where he expected a conceding smile, and it’s only then that he notices in the dimply lit room the tenseness in her posture and the frown etched into her brow.

“I saw him, Robin,” she confesses—but what does she have to confess exactly? “I saw him switch with Roland. I thought he was just humouring him, but…apparently it was Sidney who offered.”

So it wasn’t Regina’s doing then—it was Sidney’s.

That changes everything. It makes what would have been a loving, warm gesture from her into something cold and calculating, something twisted—and vaguely threatening.

“He did this on purpose,” Robin seethes, fist closing around the goblet, wishing it were Sidney’s neck instead. “He’d been planning it all along, the sick motherfucker!”

“But it accomplishes nothing,” Regina reasons. “We don’t sacrifice people to Saturn anymore. Roland will pull a few pranks and when the festival is over, everything will return to normal.”

What she’s saying sounds rational enough, except she doesn’t seem altogether reassured herself. Her voice is laced with concern, and her palm rests on her stomach in that telltale gesture of vulnerability.

“Yeah, unless it doesn’t. There are always consequences, aren’t there? The social order is void for a week—except not really, because everyone knows it will be restored within days. It’s a farce, Regina, no more.” Her panicked glance at the door reminds him to keep his voice down and his temper in check. He inhales, exhales. Regina steps closer and carefully pries the goblet from his cramping fingers. The lack of something to channel his frustration into makes it build in his chest though. “Roland is sweet, and kind, and doesn’t have a bad bone in his body, Regina. But the same cannot be said for everyone in this household. What if someone takes offence? What if Sidney keeps laying traps until he succeeds?”

By the end of the sentence, he’s raised his voice to an enraged hiss, and Regina bristles at that.

“What do you want me to do? I can’t just get rid of Sidney, Robin!” They’ve truly mastered the art of whisper-shouting, for that’s exactly what they’ve slipped into. “That would be equal to admitting to every possible crime, every trespass anyone has ever suspected me of, and every single one a Roman matron could possibly commit where Leopold is concerned.”

He knows this, of course he does, it’s something they’re both reminded of every single day and have yet to find a way out of. Right now, though, the only thing on Robin’s mind, the one thing not yet choked in the viselike grip on his heart, is fear. After months of separation, after months of suffering in a faraway ludus, where his only glimpses of Roland were of him in Regina’s arms as he looked from the sands of the training grounds up to that blasted balcony; where every such glimpse was bought with blood and bruises as Robin’s sparring partners used his distraction to their gain; and every chance to see his precious boy, so close yet out of reach, both mended his heart and chipped away at it… Could they be facing the same, or even worse, if whatever scheme is afoot were to succeed?

It explodes uncontrollably, spills from where his chest feels cut open: “I just want Roland safe!”

“And I don’t?” she hisses back, and it sounds—well, hurt. And it was Regina who’d risked everything—to visit Robin in his cell and bring him back from the brink of Death, to take in Roland and be a mother to him in everything but name, to arrange with great pains those brief glances that for weeks had been father and son’s only contact. Even now, she’s risking everything to keep them together, as safe as an enslaved gladiator and his family can be. Robin shakes his head, opens his mouth to tell her he knows all this, but she stops him with a soft: “What do you want?”

“I want us safe,” he tells her, then finds her hand in the near-dark of the sputtering candle and weaves his fingers with hers. “Just like you do.”

Their plan had been so wonderful, so full of promise for the next few days. Perhaps they could hold on to that yet? Only…tweak it a little, to mitigate risks. They were always going to hide out in the open, use the masses of revellers to their advantage. They just might need to do so more thoroughly now. Which would bring about issues of its own, and a risk Robin has been both avoiding and at the same time longing to take.

Regina is watching him, can clearly tell the cogs in his head are turning furiously even though she can’t possibly see him now that the last of the light has fizzled out.

“You have something in mind.”

“Do you trust me, love?”

In the dark, she brings their joined hands to rest over her heart.

“Yes. Of course I trust you, Robin.”

* * *

  
**_II. Dies Lunae_**

Roland doesn’t take well to the idea of early departure.

Between breakfast and lunch, while Regina and Henry dutifully receive visitors and distribute money to Leopold’s many clients for the traditional seventh-day gift-giving, Roland decides to pack in as much mischief as possible. He orders the household to move about the mansion through an obstacle course of haphazardly placed furniture because _the ground is lava!_ Every meal consists of honey cakes with sweet cream cheese and spiced apple peels. School, of course, is out of the question on these sacred days when even courts of law are closed and wars temporarily paused—and Archie, being a good sport, agrees to become his pupil’s student and amuse him with botched attempts at archery.

Guests, too, are amenable to light-hearted fun. As they come and go, Roland greets them with overzealous, overly ornate phrases that make them chuckle. They carry out his commands so willingly Robin has to step in when a particularly enthusiastic follower of Aesculapius sets to strip to sing stark naked. Roland, though briefly disappointed by Robin’s lack of sportsmanship, is undeterred. He exhausts all the classic practical jokes, and then invents some more. He acts out passages of _The Odyssey_ , paying a rather hilarious homage to its tricksters, and proudly introduces himself as Nobody.

Roland doesn’t catch the bewildered remark that giving the offspring of an _infamis_ the same quality education as one’s noble children is a waste, that it might give them the wrong ideas and, quite frankly, pose a danger to society.

Robin does catch it, however. And he also notes Sidney’s frequent and poorly excused appearances in the atrium at a time when he should be enjoying the celebrations. Robin notices, and he is watching.

When Regina’s mother crosses the threshold on her father, the elder Henry’s heels, Robin’s every sense is on high alert.

They pass through to the study without incident. Roland is otherwise occupied, and Cora keeps her eyes fixed ahead like she’s always done on the rare occasion of her visit so as to avoid even the sight of her cast-out daughter since she’s moved up from Capua. Their visit isn’t particularly long either, but enough apparently to have Cora in quite the state. Her expression is sour and indignant when she reappears, her stop at the home altar ostentatious rather than devout. As she turns to continue on her strut out—

A sharp yelp, and something’s crashing, rattling, rolling on the marble floor. It sweeps Cora off her feet and, amid colourful expletives she’ll no doubt come to rue, deposits her directly in the shallow pool of rainwater under the rectangle of open sky cut into the roof.

It would seem like the perfect prank, wouldn’t it?

Yet there’s not one smile among the half dozen dumbstruck witnesses in the atrium.

“You little mongrel, you!” Cora screeches, pointing a trembling finger at Roland, who’s quite frozen on the spot. She’s drenched wet and shivering—or, much more likely, shaking with rage as she scrambles out of the pool, slipping and sliding on the small, round marbles scattered on the floor. “You insolent, worthless—”

Robin’s face burns, his fingers twitching and curling into fists as he moves to shield Roland. His poor boy is hugging his legs at once and pressing himself close, and how fucking dare she intimidate his son, how fucking dare she go on and insult a child, this despicable, detestable, dreadful woman?

“Enough!”

Regina has stormed out of the study, eyes ablaze and jaw set, trembling also but exuding a sort of fierce, immovable energy that has even her vicious mother stop in her tracks.

“You’re making a scene, Mother,” she says, and her icy tone sends a shiver through Robin.

“This—this _child_ —”

“—is the _Saturnalicius princeps_ of this household. If anything, he’s expected to make mischief. The occasion demands it.”

“And _I_ demand respect!”

“Surely a righteous matron like you,” comes Zelena’s voice, dripping sarcasm and spleen, from the door of the triclinium, “knows to put the gods first.” And then, to add insult to injury, she tacks on a bitter, derisive: “Mother.”

Robin has no love lost for Zelena, and he’s no illusions about her motivation in this—it’s every bit as petty as the woman herself—but nevertheless she’s siding with Regina, siding with Roland. He may not like Regina’s sister, but Cora he absolutely abhors. He’s rather enjoying her humiliation if he’s being honest, even though it might yet come to cost them dearly.

Cora swallows, glares, sticks her chin up so it almost threatens to pierce the ceiling, and turns from her discarded daughter only to round on Regina again.

“This whole seasonal pretend-return to some Golden Age of equality and bliss for all is absurd and ridiculous. I will not stand for it! And you should know better, too.”

But Regina, intimidated and abused her entire childhood and well into adulthood by her poor excuse of a mother, stands her ground this time.

“My household, my rules,” she says quietly. (Gods, Robin’s so bloody proud of her, so bloody in love with this incredible woman.)

Predictably, this only stokes Cora’s anger.

“You go out of your way for that brat.” Robin expects a jibe at himself, too, but like with Zelena, Cora seems to decide to channel the depth of her contempt by making him unworthy of note altogether. Instead, she picks her grandson for a target. “You coddle him just like you do your own son, and now look where it’s gotten you.”

Regina inhales sharply, then lets out a slow breath. Robin knows what she’s doing, knows what a huge toll this is taking on her, and aches to reach out and back her up. But it’s not wise, isn’t something she’d want right now. So instead he just stands there, an arm around Roland’s trembling little shoulders, and all the love and hate sloshing about in his chest.

“Roland is not at fault here,” Regina grits. “He’s expected to do such things—and most people have no difficulty playing along.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Roland pipes up, and suddenly he’s slipping from Robin’s grasp and running over to Regina, falling into her waiting arms. “I swear I didn’t, R’gina.”

Regina looks at Roland, at his tear-stained face and miserable pout. She looks at Robin, a short glance enough to confirm their shared suspicion. And then she crouches to look Roland in the eyes and simply tells him: “I believe you, Roland.”

“Your foolishness will be your doom, Regina. Mark my words—there will come a day when you regret letting this murderous thief and his snotty cub into your life, your home, and your family. And they will regret ever getting between us.”

 _Tartarus take you_ , Robin thinks (prays, curses), _and may it swallow you whole_.

Regina grows pale at her mother’s thinly veiled threat, but she doesn’t back down, doesn’t move an inch when Cora marches past and out into the street, trailing water and the stench of bile.

In the door of the study, the elder Henry places a kiss atop a silent younger Henry’s head, presses another into a distraught Roland’s curls, then scampers wordlessly after his wife. On his way out, he can look neither Regina nor Robin in the eye.

Roland didn’t take well to the idea of early departure; now he begs them to go.

Robin fears it may already be too late.

* * *

 

Swaths of evergreen and holly bar her view, but Regina knows the household is converging in the garden right now, whispering behind the columns of the peristyle and laughing among shrubs and trees. Cora, after all, is universally unpopular, and if she was right about one thing, it was the humiliation that would come in the wake of her own over-the-top reaction to the marble incident. Still, the knowledge others will take her side and not her mother’s gives Regina little consolation, because Cora’s anger tends to make for a bleak future.

Gods, Regina can’t believe they’re leaving the stifling house behind, finally, just like they’ve been planning—though of course not quite under the circumstances they’d hoped for.

She slips out through the kitchen in the simplest, coarsest dress she’s managed to procure, shabbier by far than any worn by the slaves in Leopold’s lavish keep. This way it won’t mark her as a wealthy noblewoman in disguise when all she wants is to blend in. The leather satchel knocks heavy against her hip, and her heart isn’t as light as she’d expected it to be, but glows brighter at the sight of the small cluster of people waiting for her by the outer wall. Roland, Henry, and Robin are huddled close together, the boys’ togas hidden under cloaks. Their conversation is muddled by the noise of the revellers out in the street, so she only catches Roland’s loud whisper when she’s a mere two steps away.

“Papa, are they going to lock you up again?”

Oh gods, what have they done to this poor sweet child? Regina’s eyes burn, but she sucks it up, reins it in, because that’s what Roland needs—reassurance, not weakness.

And Robin, bless him, is fighting the same fight, his voice hoarse but firm as he tells him: “No, m’boy.”

“Are they going to lock _me_ up?”

“Never. You hear me, Roland? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Robin looks up to Regina then with a hint of desperation she understands all too well.

“You’re going to be just fine, sweetheart,” she says softly, mustering a smile she hopes is adequate as she bends her knees to Roland’s level. “Your papa will protect you—and so will I.”

“And me—whenever I can,” adds Henry with a sheepish shrug, as if it meant nothing, as if he had precious little to offer—but he’s wrong, and Roland is throwing himself at him with a sniffle and a nod as Robin pats her wonderful son on the back and thanks him with a solemn sincerity that pushes Regina right back on the brink of tears.

“Shall we, then?” she offers, unwinding the rope from across Robin’s chest.

The climb is harder than it seems, but Robin is strong and skilled in such mischief and Regina stubborn and determined; before long they’ve made their escape.

The crowd swallows them immediately, carrying them like a flood down the streets of the Palatine, past the majestic homes of the rich and powerful. Past the Forum, past Circus Maximus they go, Regina clutching Henry’s hand and Robin’s while Roland sits perched on his father’s shoulders. Conversation is impossible, the roar of the crowd deafening, the frequent shouts of _Io, Saturnalia!_ as people greet and toast each other have become one never-ending salutation to the god of the season.

Roland, though still somewhat rattled, perks up as he takes in the sights, sounds, and smells of his favourite holiday. His arm keeps shooting out to point at people and objects of interest, bumping into passers-by and, one time, the corner of a food stall. There’s a warning on the tip of her tongue, an urge to protect him from injury. Robin doesn’t seem to share Regina’s worries though, lights up instead at his son’s renewed interest.

Is she being too…fussy? She doesn’t want to be overbearing, will absolutely not fret over this.

So she returns Roland’s beaming smile, smooths down Henry’s hair, and bumps playfully into Robin’s side, earning herself a squeeze and a smirk in retaliation. The boys, now entirely enchanted by the singers and dancers careening in the narrow space between houses and shops, keep poking each other to call attention to a spectacularly decorated tree here or an extravagant shop display there, all decked out in green and gold.

The Aventine, with its sloping streets and convoluted maze of dingy alleys, looms behind a curtain of fog, a pearly grey gauze hiding the modest housing blocks and run-down shantytowns from sight. This is where they’re headed—the up-and-coming neighbourhood with a reputation for drawing foreigners along with the poor and common.

This is where Robin’s main domain had been, his operating base, his network of contacts and occasional partners in crime—before he was caught stealing from Rumplestiltskin the censor and convicted by then-praetor, George; before he narrowly escaped death to instead be stripped of citizenship and humanity and carted off to a ludus in Capua, where he’d train to become a gladiator, to draw and shed blood for the entertainment and gain of others.

In a way, Robin is coming home.

“Happy to be back?” Regina shouts over the raucous crowd.

“That I am.” But Robin’s dimples don’t make an appearance, and sure enough, he admits: “And nervous.”

“Because of me?”

It’s been her fear for a while, that he’d find their worlds too much at odds. He’s of noble birth himself, even though his family’s fall from grace had left him virtually penniless and with little to no influence. That and the horrors he’d seen in the Roman legions had ultimately driven him to crime as a radical solution in a world awash with social injustice. He’s smart, educated, and every bit her equal; she sees him as such even now, even though Roman law would have her value him about as much as the piss and mud sticking to the soles of her shoes. Regina is not new to squalor and suffering, doesn’t shy away from the plebs like many of her station make a point of, but she’d never lived among them, never spent half as much time on the streets as Robin had. He’s loath to bring her into the tiny hole in a ramshackle eight-story apartment house that used to be his and Roland’s home, and she wonders sometimes if sharing the filthy floor for a precious hour of privacy has brought them together or, in some ways, further apart. Their lives had been different in so many ways—his often a fight to get bread on the table, hers to fake an appetite in her golden cage.

So is Robin nervous for Regina to accept and appreciate the people in his life, or for them to do the same with her?

“No, love,” he tells her, shaking his head for good measure, “not because of you.” And then he leans over Henry walking between them and whispers only for her to hear: “For my friends. How many of them still draw breath?”

Regina’s heart squeezes painfully. She reaches for him over Henry’s shoulders, palm stroking clumsily over the arm Robin, too, has slung around her son. One corner of Robin’s mouth tips upward, not quite a rueful smile but a sign he’s trying to keep his spirits up. Gods know his losses had been too many already—among family and friends, in the military and in the arena, in the revolt and its aftermath. Regina doesn’t set much store by prayer, but still she catches herself sending out a silent plea to the darkening skies that Robin be spared from further pain.

“Look, Mom! There’s our house, see?”

She doesn’t quite, but Henry has a point nevertheless—the view really is magnificent from here, or would be anyway on a beautiful sunny day. Roland twists and wriggles in Robin’s hold, making a great show of shielding his eyes and gazing into the distance. There the Palatine swims in wisps of mist shimmering in the scant sunlight that filters through rolling clouds.

“And there’s the racetracks, papa! Regina took us once—right, Regina?”

And Roland launches into a dramatic reenactment of a race months ago. Henry joins in to represent one of the competition, both boys running laps around them until they’re red-faced and bright-eyed. Robin lunges after them then, hugging one then the other around the middle and tickling until there are shouts of laughter all around.

Regina is overcome with emotion at the sight of them, carefree and playful. She’s only ever seen Robin this happy on a handful of occasions, and—her heart flutters hopelessly—it’s always been when it’s him, Roland, Henry, and herself, in stolen moments of unguarded normalcy. Her chuckle is a breathy, tearful mess as she brushes back the curls sticking to Roland’s sweaty forehead. It rings louder when she reaches to wipe a dirty smear from Henry’s cheek but misses at first, jostled by a vivacious group of merrymakers passing by in a storm.

Robin glares after them, his eyes narrowing.

“Wha—?”

But his features relax before she can ask what’s wrong, and the amused spark returns to his eyes. Out of the blue, he grabs her by the hand and presses a kiss to her cheek, then another to her lips. She kisses him back, much to the boys’ disgust, staggering a little before her arm finds Robin’s waist.

“Almost there,” he whispers in her ear. Not a heavy secret for once or words of pain and longing, but a joyful promise.

Roland and Henry race ahead, and Robin pulls Regina with him, giving chase.

In the shadow of the temple dedicated to the Aventine Triad, where the statues of Ceres, Liber, and Libera overlook the Circus Maximus and the Temple of Vesta, the crowd grows dense. Hagglers have converged at a handful of stalls selling small trinkets and treats. People of all ages and states of drunkenness are milling about the rows and rows of human-shaped figurines lining the blankets spread upon the stairs. _Sigillaria_ of terracotta and hard-baked dough, as well as wax of all colours, are always in high demand this time of year.

“Stay close, boys,” Regina warns.

“Too late, love,” Robin says with a smirk she can’t quite account for. “The deed’s done.”

He doesn’t seem upset, more…proud. And relieved, as if a mischief managed (what mischief she doesn’t know, because a quick check proves her satchel is unbroached )meant good news. He moves with deliberation, sidestepping shoppers and taking a random statuette from the wares on display. Before Regina can question his odd behaviour, a person materialises before them as if she’d spurted from the ground.

“That’ll be thirty—” The girl, not much older than Henry, stares up at Robin in awe. Her dress is shabby but clean, and a few inches too short. She throws two messy blonde braids over her shoulders and shrugs with a flippant: “That’s fifty for you, for not showing your face for ages.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, too, Gretel,” Robin smiles good-naturedly and counts out the coins requested of him, closing Gretel’s fist around them before she can protest. “And where’s your brother?”

“Here, here!” shouts an elated Roland, hugging a brown-haired boy around the middle, then rushing to give Gretel the same treatment.

They sit down atop the stairs, with the wares well within view. Gretel keeps an eye on the figurines at all times, while her brother, Hansel, shows Roland and Henry how to fashion a blob of wax into human likeness.

“Business is booming, yeah?” Robin asks as Gretel collects payment for a bulk purchase. “No longer picking pockets then?”

Hansel’s face falls a little, but Gretel is unapologetic. She’s not particularly subtle though about how she wormed her way between Robin and Regina, seeking the hug she pretends she doesn’t want and which Robin gladly gives.

“Sometimes we make an exception,” she shrugs. Robin looks pointedly at the man presently turning to leave with a candle Gretel has sold him for next to nothing—and yet there’s a golden aureus glinting in her palm. “What? He could clearly afford to pay. And he always tries to cheat the poor out of profit.”

It dawns on Regina then—a suspicion duly confirmed when she reaches into the folds of her skirt and instead of solid metal finds only air.

“May I have my brooch back, please?”

Robin chortles then—he must have known all along, the conniving bastard. Gretel’s cheeks run red, but she offers no apology, only reaches deep into her pocket.

“It’s so shiny,” she comments, turning the winged Pegasus in her hand. “Looks like it could feed a village.”

“Not this one.”

“So it’s not precious?”

“To me it is. My daddy gave it to me when I was little.”

Gretel’s eyes go wide, hand clutching the chipped-off gilded chain hanging from her neck, with its pendant hidden in her clothes. She returns the brooch to Regina with a quiet apology, and Regina pins it to the inside of her pocket—Rome is full of thieves thriving during the holidays, and not all of them are as honest and principled as present company.

“So what happened to you?” Gretel asks, and the boys all raise their heads as Robin gives a truthful though age-appropriate account of the past year or so.

“I tried to steal flour from the _aedile_ and got caught. Now I’m trying to earn back my freedom as a disgraced gladiator.”

“Good thing we no longer do that,” Hansel whispers, then adds in a whisper: “Much.”

“What have you two been up to then? Not selling _sigillaria_ all year long?”

“Not all year, no. We do other stuff though—pots, vases, stuff like that. Turns out Hansel is handy with pottery,” Gretel explains. “I’ve always been good with numbers and stuff, so it works out fine on most days.”

They linger a bit longer, but Robin’s soon urging them on their way.

To the southeast, on the other side of a steep cleft upon which Rome has built a roadway, heavy storm clouds have been gathering. They breast the rising wind, passing taverns and bars, brothels thriving and collapsing, temples and shrines dedicated to deities from far and wide, until they come upon the sacred city walls. The stone is newer here by a couple hundred years, hard and yellowish, hauled and chiselled into place after the Gauls had temporarily taken and held the city centuries before.

At the foot of the wall a group has gathered, curious bystanders and passers-by turning the narrow streets into a crammed maze.

A lilting voice carries over their heads, reciting a love story in verse. It’s melodious and charged with emotion, rising slightly at the end of each sentence. It curls around words with delicate precision and cradles them with care—then lets them loose to float, vibrate, hover in midair.

 _Awed by her splendour_  
_stars near the lovely_  
_moon cover their own_  
_bright faces_  
_when she_  
_is roundest and lights  
_ _earth with her silver._

Robin gives Regina a little squeeze followed by a pointed look Henry's way.

While Regina, though not easily impressed, is certainly not unmoved, Henry is, well, enchanted. There’s that faraway look in his eyes of one transported to a different time and place. Standing still with his mouth hanging open, he listens to the cadence of the faceless voice, entirely enraptured.

Roland grins and sets to worming his way through the audience, prompting them to follow until they surface at the front.

Atop an overturned wooden crate stands a woman with chestnut hair, wearing neither tawdry costume nor dramatic mask. She ignores the catcalls, of which there are plenty, and blushes at the sparse applause.

“Belle! Hi!” cries Roland, bouncing back and forth, barely restrained in his father’s embrace.

Belle steps down from her makeshift podium, waving at Roland, a wide smile splitting her face at the sight of Robin, but instead of approaching them she stands back. Her place is taken by someone who looks vaguely familiar, with a curtain of flaming auburn waves falling across her face, and a walking stick she’s leaning on for support.

When she launches into song, people simply flock to her. Like a siren of myth and legend, she draws them in. Coin rains into the faded, patched _pileus_ Belle is making the rounds with, clinking gently into the rhythm of the tearful lament.

The bewitched spectators disperse when the last note dies, wandering dreamily away until it’s only the half dozen of them.

“Robin!” Belle launches himself at him, and Robin laughs as they embrace while Roland tries to wriggle his way in—and succeeds in the end, because who ever could resist him?

Regina stands there with an arm around Henry, whose nervous energy seeps through to her. He’s torn between a bout of shyness and starry-eyed admiration, and it’s absolutely adorable. Robin meanwhile looks so happy, so relieved, and it’s one more thing to thank the gods for—that they allowed this reunion between brother and sister in everything but blood. He’s told Regina about Belle quite a bit, about how she’d use her hard-won book- and street smarts to help him out in a bind on more than one occasion, about how she’d been the first to join what would become Robin’s hodge-podge family.

“I can’t believe you’re here! How long has it been? I’ve heard about the sentence, of course, and later about your, well, career… But I haven’t been able to get a hold of you since.”

“I’ve been well taken care of, for the most part.” He reaches for Regina’s hand and weaves their fingers together. She has to remind herself that it’s safe. The chances that Leopold, Cora, or anyone else from her world are going to jump out from around the corner are about as good as those of Jupiter smiting her with a lightning bolt. They’re allowed to be openly affectionate for once, and the way he does it, with such ease and pride even, makes her all warm and tingly.

“Yes, I can see that,” Belle comments with a knowing smile, extending her hand for Regina to shake. “And this young man with you?”

“My son, Henry. He’s quite taken with you already.”

“Mooom!” Henry whispers, beet red with mortification, running a deeper shade yet when Belle gives him a one-armed hug.

“Henry’s a storyteller himself,” Robin adds in all seriousness, making even the tips of Henry’s ears go crimson—and Regina could just about kiss him for that, this wonderful, thoughtful, loving man.

Belle beams, bright-eyed, then beckons her fellow performer over.

“Come meet my friend—”

“Ariel?”

There’s really no question though, no mistaking the woman even though years have gone by.

“Regina.” It’s measured, not quite icy, but decidedly cold in contrast to Robin and Belle’s exuberant joy of before.

Not that Regina can blame her.

Oh, it’s been too good to be true, hasn’t it? Her past misdeeds have finally caught up with her, with this fresh start she’s dreamt up for herself, for them. Ariel had known her at her worst, scared and heartbroken and shrouded in darkness—and now Robin will know, too. Well, not know per se—she’s told him before, has warned him well in advance. Now he’ll see for himself.

Gods, what if—

What if Ariel wants revenge?

_Fuck. Shit, shit, shit._

She knows about her and Robin, she’s seen them hold hands, is seeing them hold hands right now, still—Regina snatches hers away, but of course it’s way too late for that, and—

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Tell what?” Regina replies, genuinely stumped. What does she have to tell that Ariel wants kept quiet?

Ariel throws back her red mane and stares Regina in the eye for a beat or two.

“My father isn’t even looking for me, is he?” she huffs.

“I—I don’t know.” Doesn’t that speak for itself though? When Ariel had first disappeared—allegedly—there were signs posted all over the city, a staggering reward offered for any information leading to her recovery. That was then, though—and now, for ages, nothing. The least she can do is tell Ariel the ugly truth. “No, I think not. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Ariel smiles—a genuine, easy smile this time. “You see, ever since the shipwreck, it’s been a nightmare. The damage to my legs is irreparable. No _medicus_ can help me, and I’m done wasting all my time, effort, and dignity on a lost cause just because my family can’t stand the sight of a cripple. That’s why I left, and chose this life instead. When I sing, no one pities me or is repulsed by me. I’m not some absurd spectacle, or a burden to be tolerated. I am someone. I am me. Here, among outcasts, I have true friends.”

Regina is in awe of this woman, of how she’s taken her life in her own hands, overcoming every obstacle the fickle, petty gods have sent her way. It stings to know that Regina could never achieve the same. It stings even more that she, at one point, used to be one such obstacle in Ariel’s way.

“I’m happy for you. Truly.” Her belly tightens, her voice hitches, but Regina is no coward. For Ariel’s sake and her own, she soldiers on. “And I’m sorry. For using you to get to Snow, back when things were…strained between us. I shouldn’t have done like that.”

Ariel surveys her for a while. Whatever she detects in Regina’s face—she tries to make it as open, as honest as possible—makes her own features relax.

“You’d helped Eric and me, back when we’d eloped. We’re still together, you know, even after everything. We live down by the Tiber—he’s a fisherman now. I never forgot what you’d done for us when no one else would.” She hesitates for a moment, then glances over Regina’s shoulder at where the rest of their small party is chatting away happily, leaving Regina and Ariel as much privacy as a Roman street allows on a festival day. “I’m sorry things ended tragically for you and Daniel. But it seems you’ve found yourself a second chance.”

Regina turn around just in time to catch Robin looking at her, with so much love in his eyes it sends warmth radiating from her chest all the way to her fingertips.

“I have, haven’t I?” she whispers.

In more ways than one, it seems.

* * *

 

It isn't by far the seediest establishment around, despite its regrettable appearance. It’s certainly better than the pathetic, dark, dirty little cubicle they’re usually confined to for the rare quick tryst. The inn’s cracked facade and the peeling paint on the weathered sign conceal a place of good repute, with warm food in the common area downstairs and humble but clean rooms to rent on the upper floor.

Of course, Regina wouldn't know all that.

“This is it,” he tells her, stopping just shy of the three steps leading to the entrance.

Robin bites his lip when he realises he’s been gripping her hand with excessive gusto. The gesture is unconscious, and clearly unfounded—never mind that this is no way to hold on to love, she’s not running away from him. Not today, not ever again. And definitely not for this. He hates the touch of nerves about him, and he hates that because she certainly would. Or does.

Because of course she catches on. She tilts her head with a crooked little smile that’s half pout.

“Robin,” she sighs, and fuck this, he didn’t want to make her feel this way, never wants to give her a reason to believe she’s anything less than a blessing to him, for she’s welcome to every last nook and crevice of his heart. She swings their joined hands slightly, goes willingly when he pulls her close, and whispers: “I just want to spend the holiday with you and the boys. Safe, and free for once to do as we like. Even if it’s only temporary, even if we must go into hiding to do it. I want to meet your friends, I want to…” She trails off, their noses inches apart, dropping her gaze to his lips.

He’s ready when she leans in, kisses back slowly, deeply, grinning against her lips as the door slams shut behind two pairs of hurrying feet. Their boys are safe inside, and Regina and he—well, the crowd lends them the anonymity they’ve been looking for. It’s warm where their bodies press together and scorching hot where their lips meet eagerly in the cool evening air.

It’s exquisite, and Robin, faithless but hopeful, sends up a plea to the gods to grant them many a moment like this. They’re both smiling stupidly into each little peck he leans back in for. She mocks him for this sometimes, teasing that he can’t ever get enough. Invariably he concedes the point, and each time it conjures up that elusive but satisfying smile he thinks about every time he closes his eyes. This smile, right now, as they finally part and amble towards the door, is of a different sort—wide, dazed, dazzling.

She walks through the door with not a hint of hesitation, pulling him by the hand, and his heart skips pleasantly.

This is home, or the closest thing he has to one—his loved ones sheltered by solid wooden walls with no eyes, only a pair of uncannily sharp ears and a generous soul hiding behind a sharp exterior.

“Well would you look at that, boys—the lovebirds have arrived.”

“Granny—you’ve not changed a bit.”

Indeed she looks like she always has, silver hair and alert eyes, a broad smile as she serves Roland and Henry warm cow’s milk with honey at the table closest to the counter.

“I say what I see, son,” Granny insists in her usual crisp voice, though he definitely detects a touch of sentimentality. “And in your case it’s as clear as the day Apollo shines his laurel crown.”

“I happily admit it,” he chuckles as they embrace, a firm pat or three landing on his back and a couple ribs squeezed so thoroughly he’s short of breath.

When she’s done with him, she turns to her.

“Regina, is it? Yes, I can see why these two are so taken with you. Heart in the right place and beauty to boot. Welcome.” When Regina returns the hug after a moment of stunned hesitation, Granny gives her the same bone-crushing treatment. “And no worries—your family’s safe here.”

“Granny’s a mean shot,” he explains with a grin. He can’t bloody stop grinning. Regina, too, is smiling, hasn’t stopped since they entered. She’s relaxed, hardly wary at all, and her eyes twinkle with amusement. Gods, this was a marvellous idea. Winking at her, he adds: “Her crossbow’s given many a rascal a run for their denarii.”

“I’ll out-shoot you any day, young one.”

“Ah, perhaps a new challenge is in order.”

"I want to compete!” Roland cries—or tries to, but is hindered by a mouthful of biscuits. “Daddy’s been teaching me! Please, can I?”

“You have an unfair advantage, young man.” Granny says gravely, making Roland frown in confusion. “You’re too adorable for your own good.”

“The dimples are very distracting,” Regina smirks, glancing Robin’s way.

Granny disappears behind the counter with a snort and the promise of more victuals for all.

Regina slips into the seat next to Henry, rubbing his back affectionately. She retrieves a square piece of cloth from that bottomless satchel of hers and leans over to wipe crumbs from Roland’s cheek. His sweet-toothed boy is up to his ears in them, and the way he scrunches up his face in protestation makes them all laugh.

Robin hasn’t felt this happy in months.

They eat amid lively chatter, sitting in sturdy wood-carved chairs, sharing simple but hearty food: chunks of cheese and chewy bread, and cheap wine for the adults that tastes better here, in present company, than the priciest Falernian elsewhere. Henry, quiet at first, no doubt puzzled by the plethora of new impressions, comes alive when Robin shows him a scene from the legend of Romulus and Remus painted on one of the walls. Next thing they know Granny’s telling them some tall tale about a big bad wolf she vanquished once with her trusty crossbow. Henry’s initial shyness has evaporated by the time the door opens again, letting in a gust of chilly night air along with a solitary figure in a red hooded cape.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Granny drawls. “About time, too.”

“Ruby!” Roland gasps, darting towards her as if he’d been shot from a ballista. “Ruby, Ruby!”

Robin stands, too, grinning as Ruby fawns over his son, gushing that he’s _becoming a big boy so fast, by the gods!_ Robin’s overcome by gratitude to the young woman—had it not been for her, Roland would never have safely been transferred into Regina’s care after Robin’s capture and imprisonment. He’s been waiting for an opportunity to thank Ruby since that fateful day, and his chance has finally come.

“Don’t mention it,” she says the moment he catches her eye, wrapping him in a hug instead.

“It’s good to see you again, Ruby.”

“You, too, Regina.”

A shadow of guilt crosses Robin’s heart as the two women embrace. Perhaps the cordiality between them should not surprise him this much, but somehow Robin’s never imagined their very first meeting as anything but tense. Why hasn’t he ever thought to ask Regina about it?

He’s never confessed to her either just how astonished he’d been that she’d be willing to enter a _popina_ to begin with. Respectable Roman matrons do not frequent wine bars. Neither should children—and yet Regina hadn’t so much as raised a brow when he’d told her where to find his poor son, in the care of a barmaid no less. But Regina, he would soon find out, is no regular person. She marched into the bar off the Via Sacra that very day, and not only has she gone out of their way to arrange clandestine little meetings between father and son, but she’s been raising Roland as her own ever since.

He hasn’t told her, and he cannot very well do so right now, but he can show her at least. She smiles when he places a hand to the small of her back, leans into his side, and hums in response to the kiss pressed to her temple. It seems not enough, and yet what more can he do than show her every day how appreciated, how cherished, how loved she is?

And to be honest, he rather enjoys trying.

* * *

 

Regina is pleasantly tired by the time they head upstairs for the night. Roland is asleep in Robin’s arms, and Henry’s leaning heavily on her, barely keeping his eyes open. They tuck the boys in together in a cosy little bedroom Granny shows them, place a kiss each on their foreheads, and retire to the room next door.

The candles Granny’s lit for them paint the walls in warm hues. Furniture is sparse—a massive bed takes up most of the space, and at its foot rests a chest for their clothes, covered by wolfskin, that also doubles as a bench. A chamberpot peeks from under the bed. On the windowsill, a bowl and two goblets sit next to a jug of water.

While Regina draws back the covers on the oh-so-tempting bed, Robin crosses the room to close the curtains.

“Sleepy, my love?” he chuckles as she tries to stifle a yawn.

His arms circle her waist, and she leans back against him. It feels different, closer, more intimate now that he’s not wearing his usual leather _cuirass_. There’s only soft wool, warm from his skin and smelling of him, too. She could just melt into him.

“Mm, yes, actually,” she admits lazily, her eyelids heavy.

“Shall we, then?”

Without his customary armour, there’s no real need for her to help him undress, but she turns around to do it anyway, just because she can. Off comes his tunic, leaving bare skin covered in criss-crossing scars. Regina runs a finger over the one nearest to his heart. Before dark thoughts intrude, however, Robin draws her in and peppers her shoulder with kisses as he pulls down the straps of her dress. It’s gentle and unhurried, and soon they’re snuffing out the candles and slipping under the covers together, both stripped to their undergarments.

They’ve never shared a proper bed before. All they’ve had is a few nights on a bed of pine needles and thin blankets while hiding in the forests surrounding Rome, and the occasional stolen hour on a dirty floor strewn with half-rotten straw. Never this, though. Never something so ordinary, and certainly not without fear of being discovered constantly at the back of their minds. Tonight is new. If she were a sentimental person, she might even say magical.

“Thank you for bringing us here,” she whispers, settling into his side.

“Thank you for letting me,” Robin responds with yet another triad of kisses planted on her brow. “Granny’s blunt manner doesn’t deter you, I trust?”

“Not at all. I find it refreshing, actually. She’s doesn’t tolerate nonsense. I like that.”

“She likes you, too, you know.”

Regina stills at that. She’s never been the likable sort. She’s neither (excessively) cheerful like Snow nor effortlessly affable like Ruby. Has Granny really said that, specifically, or—?

“You’re…not surprised.”

“I figured the two of you would hit it off,” Robin shrugs, not without a distinct measure of smugness. “You share something in common.”

“And what’s that?”

“An irresistible affection for me.” When Regina smacks him square in the chest in jest, he lets out a rumbling laugh. Growing serious under her sceptical glare, he cups her jaw and looks at her with infinite tenderness. “And a heart that’s been roughened by trials and tribulations, but remains soft underneath, with a wealth of warmth and kindness for those lucky to gain your favour.”

That’s—He’s—He’s impossible. Gods, he’s such a sap. Robin lavishes her in compliments whenever that deep-seated darkness inside her rears its ugly head, and not only then. And he means every word, every gesture, she knows he does. He can’t make her demons disappear, but he helps keep them at bay. And she loves him for it.

But she’s too exhausted, and far too comfortable in Robin’s arms, to deal with such heavy issues now.

Instead, she licks her lips and fixes him with a sultry look.

“And do you think I favour you, Robin of the Hood?”

“I very much hope so, my lady.”

They dive in at the same time, noses bumping together before mouth meets mouth. The scratch of his stubble, the way he nibbles on her lips, the sensual caress of his tongue against her own banish the worst of her sleepiness. The way their bodies fit together, chests heaving with quickened breath, awaken something else instead, and perhaps she’s not not too tired after all to engage in other pleasant activi—

“Papa? R’gina?”

_Oh gods._

They must have been too wrapped up in each other to hear the knock on the door. Thank goodness things haven’t progressed far yet. They scramble to disentangle themselves from the sheets and one another while feet shuffle nervously in the door.

“Roland, m’boy, is everything all right?” comes Robin’s scratchy voice from the dark. She can still hear him panting even as she, too, tries to slow her breathing.

“Do you not like your room, sweetheart?” she chimes in.

“I wanna sleep here tonight—please?”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Nope. Just because we never get to.”

That’s—a perfectly good argument, actually.

“Henry?” she prompts—and sure enough, is met with a hesitant _Mom?_ that brings forth an instant smile _._

“Come on in, both of you. Quick, before all the warmth is gone.”

Two pairs of feet pad towards them, and the bed creaks under the added weight. Roland burrows himself between them with a happy sigh, and Regina pats the mattress beside her to encourage Henry to do the same. They’re asleep within moments.

As Robin finds her hand blindly and the boys’ even breathing lulls her to sleep, she’s not even a little bit disappointed at this turn of events.

* * *

 

  
**_III. Dies Martis_**

Patience has never been Regina’s forte.

“Just one little peek,” she bargains, craning her neck to see over the counter and into the kitchen.

“Not a single one, love.” Robin chuckles.

He actually chuckles, the bastard. Easy for him to laugh, he’d gotten to enjoy Granny’s barley soup before. Regina has only just discovered it in what’s been a truly transformative experience. She’s not the only one, though, to clamour for more—none of them can get enough of the delicacy. Which is why Granny’s currently brewing the third pot.

“Granny would have your head,” he tells her with the cheeky, dimpled grin that invariably tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, she would,” Granny confirms as she rounds the counter to rejoin them. “No one meddles in my cooking.”

“That’s not fair,” Henry accuses, indignant at this great injustice. Finally an ally. He’s had two large helpings and asked permission to lick his bowl clean—one she granted, good manners be damned. It’s Saturnalia after all, and they’re among friends. “How are we supposed to recreate it if you won’t tell us the secret recipe?”

“Tell you what, Henry—you come see me anytime, I’ll make it for you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” says Granny. They shake on it, solemn as the occasion demands. “Now roll the dice, or Roland here’s gonna wear out my floor tapping his foot. Impatient lot,” she adds with a pointed look Regina’s way, a good-natured tease behind her stern expression.

There are no guests at the inn for the week, only friends and the ragtag family they’ve created for themselves, making the best of every storm. Dice dance merrily across wood. There aren’t really any stakes: a song to perform, a challenge to fulfil. Belle, down on her luck today, has had to brave an obstacle course improvised from overturned furniture. Robin’s whittled a flute from firewood, and Henry and Regina have danced to the few tones Ariel’s managed to harness from it.

It’s simply been a cosy, fun, comfortable snow day.

Because Rome, barely used to bitter colds and the humblest dusting of white, had been hit by a snowstorm overnight. Hansel and Gretel appeared at the door when pink-fingered Aurora was barely reaching over the horizon, and, blue with cold, they reported chunks of ice floating down the Tiber. It took hours of huddling in blankets at the fireplace for the siblings to defrost. By then, they’d decided no outings for the day, and set up the room for board games instead.

With Granny’s permission, Robin carved a checkerboard into one of the tabletops. Knucklebones were brought out, small pebbles hastily gathered in the street while teeth chattered, and a small ball even surfaced from a forgotten toy chest in one of the bedrooms.

By the time the scant snow started melting to slush, nobody had the slightest inclination to leave the warm inn.

Curled up in front of the fireplace with Robin, with Roland and Henry playing tag between haphazardly placed tables and chairs, Regina wishes they never had to leave at all.

“Those are awfully loud thoughts you’re thinking.”

“Well, they’ve turned a bit…heavy.”

“Would you like to share?”

She considers it. Toying with his fingers, she breathes in Robin’s scent, basks in the firm, reliable warmth of him around her. While his offer is much appreciated, there’s nothing new or surprising about her line of thought. This blissful bubble is bound to burst soon—out of the six days allotted to them, they’re nearing the end of the third. After that, Saturn’s feet will be bound again, and so will their hands. They will no longer be Regina and Robin but instead resume the roles of dignified noblewoman and infamous gladiator, with only stolen moments to love each in secret. That was always the deal. Dissecting it would only make the dark thoughts linger longer. With no solution to their issue, what would be the point in dwelling anyway, other than waste what precious time they still have?

“Not really,” she says quietly. “Can we just—make it go away?”

Robin doesn’t push; Robin knows.

“Ah, and how do you propose we go about it?”

His hands have moved from around her middle, travelling slowly up her arms, trailing a pleasant shiver all the way to her shoulders. Brushing her hair to one side, he sets to rub and massage gently, dotting her neck, her jaw, her nape with kisses. Gods, he’s so good with hands…and his mouth…

“That’s…working quite well, actually. But—”

“Mmhmm, I know. While this method has its merits,” Robin muses, swirling his tongue around the shell of her ear tortuously, and damn the smug bastard, “it’s neither the time nor place. I shall store it away for later.”

“You’d better.”

Since there’s no better medicine than some quality time with the boys, they leave their favoured spot by the fire and join the raging game of knucklebones. Regina lets a bunch of jagged clay shapes make predictions about her future, and wonders if they’re any less reliable than the prophecies laid down in the sacred Sibylline Books.

If she could find out what the Fates have in store for her, for them, would she want to know?

Her mind refuses to leave her at peace, and so Granny’s soup is a welcome distraction.

“Eat up, eat up,” Granny urges, offering everyone seconds. “I have another batch of barley ready to soak overnight.”

“Hey, did you hear that?” Henry jumps up, very nearly upending the table. “Drums!”

“And pipes!” Roland sputters around a mouthful of soup.

Ruby throws the window open, and in comes raucous laughter and shouts of _io-io-io_ interspersed with scraps of song. Half-hanging from the window, she looks this way and that.

“Usual suspects,” she reports. “Usual dress code.”

“So they’re all in the nude,” Belle drops casually.

“Obviously. And they’re coming here.”

“Oh no they aren’t.”

And with that, Granny’s grabbing her crossbow, pushing past Ruby, and stationing herself at the window with a wilting glare.

“Papa,” clamours Roland, “I wanna see the naked singers!”

Regina can’t help it—she laughs. Robin gives her an indignant huff and a wounded look, but his dimples are showing, so she can’t possibly take either seriously. Exchanging a wink with Henry, she, along with everyone else, watches Robin try to wrestle a riotous Roland away from the door.

“Now, now, Roland, those good people have many homes to visit. I’m certain they shan’t mind skipping ours, especially once Granny’s loosed a few arrows at the lot. How about we ask Ariel here if she’d sing for us a bit?” he coaxes, throwing Ariel an apologetic look. “Since she can actually, you know, sing.”

“She does sound much nicer,” Roland admits, stifling a yawn. “But I want you and R’gina to sing me a lullaby.”

Perhaps it shouldn’t make her feel warm and melty around the heart, she’s not much of a singer after all, but perhaps for that exact reason it does.

All the way upstairs, with Henry beside her and Robin in tow, her broad grin remains.

Roland requests three songs and a story before he drifts off at last.

Henry, however, is still wide awake. He’s staring at the ceiling, expressionless for the past few minutes now. It’s a stark contrast to how he’s been all day. The trek through Rome yesterday had been an adventure, a leap into the unknown, and Henry had been equal parts excited and anxious. While Roland had clearly been back in his element, Henry had been more cautious, a bit out of his depth. He’s been opening up though, has flourished among family and new friends, been the life of the party today. It’s filled Regina’s heart with unprecedented joy to see him like that—and now…

“It’s okay, Mom. You can go back downstairs, have fun with the others.”

Regina glances over her shoulder at Robin; he nods, gives her hand a supportive little squeeze, bids Henry goodnight, and leaves them to it.

“Henry?” she prompts, finger hooking gently into where his hands are crossed over the blanket. She rubs gently, just like she used to when he was just a baby—it barley registers at first, and she wonders if it’s comforting to him or if it’s just her.

“I’m fine… It’s just…”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Do you not like it here?”

“No, I do,” he tells her, finally meeting her eye. “I really like it here. It’s…so different from home.”

Oh. Now it’s all making sense. She thinks.

“Good different?” she prods again, attempting a smile and probably failing at making it anything other than melancholy.

Henry bites his lip, then nods guiltily.

“Oh, Henry… Come here.” He goes easily, latching onto her just like he’s done all his life when he was distraught and wanted comfort. Her poor baby—he’s been tormenting himself just like she has, dreading the return to reality. He mutters a dejected little sorry, and she tells him, firmly, that he’s done nothing wrong—because she won’t have him feeling guilty over how he feels. She rubs his back in steady passes, up and down, until she feels him relax a little. “I love this for us, too,” she whispers, “and I’m going to miss it. But I promise we’ll try to come back the first chance we get. And in the meantime, I want you to do something for me. I want you to have all the fun you can, and not think about when it’s over. Do you know why?”

“Because if I’m sad in advance, it means I’m missing all the good stuff.”

“That’s right,” she sniffs—what did she do to deserve such a brilliant son? “And that’s something I need to work on, too. So we can try together, okay?”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, Henry.” He drops back onto the pillow, smiling up at her, his eyes no longer hollow, only heavy with sleep. She presses a kiss to his forehead, adjusts his blanket, and lingers in the door, whispering on her way out: “I’m so proud of you.”

It’s done wonders, this little heart-to-heart, and not just for Henry—for Regina, too. She feels so light she practically floats down the stairs to rejoin the others. Wine will flow a touch more generously now, conversation will be steeped in banter, and jokes will get just that bit spicier. Good company, good food, and perhaps a special nightcap of sorts once she and Robin are alone is just what she—

“Ruby! Heyyy, Ruby!” The window is still ajar, and some sorry drunk is stumbling down the street, yelling and cursing. Banging on the door, he shouts: “Come out’n’play! C’mon, it’ll be like the good old days. Hey, I even got the coin to pay right here!”

Everything freezes, and all eyes are—for some unfathomable reason—on Regina.

“I’ll show you, scoundrel!” Granny growls, grabbing the pot of dishwater and emptying it on the intruder’s head. “Waking honest folk in the middle of the night!”

The silence is thick and charged like a thunderstorm, and Robin is the only one who won’t meet Regina’s eye.

It’s Ruby who finally breaks the silence.

“Regina—I should probably explain.”

* * *

 

Robin is bloody dying out here.

He isn’t privy to the conversation between Regina and Ruby, but sits slouched on a chair, nursing a goblet of wine he hasn’t touched since the two disappeared in the kitchen. Eric’s made a feeble attempt at talk, but it’s fizzled out within moments. So Robin only has his gnawing doubt for company, along with everyone else’s evasive, pitying looks.

Except for Granny’s, which is unapologetically disapproving.

“You’ve made your bed,” she says gravely, patting Robin’s shoulder, “now you sleep in it.”

“She’ll understand,” he tells her—tells himself.

“About Ruby? Or about you?”

And isn’t that the question?

It had always been a dream of his to show Regina parts of his life he cherished but she hadn’t been privy to, to introduce to her friends she’d never before known other than from stories. Aside from external circumstances, there was this one thing standing in the way. What if Regina were uncomfortable staying with them? What if she thought they were unfit company for Henry, for Roland?

He’s kept telling himself she wouldn’t. She’s smart and compassionate, and scoffs at many an absurd societal convention. She’s hiked for miles and slept on dirt floors, voluntarily. But she can also be very particular and above all protective, and he couldn’t very well blame her if she didn’t want the stigma of fraternising with Rome’s lowest anywhere near her son. True, Robin is one such low of the low, but that wasn’t always the case, so perhaps in this there is a difference.

Now she knows.

Now she knows, and it’s not Robin who’s made the choice to tell her. That, if nothing else, is going to sting.

When Regina reappears, his worst fears are confirmed.

She says not a word as she passes by, but seems to have a smile to spare for everyone but him.

Ruby’s secret is out, and Regina hasn’t turned away from them—and the relief he feels at the knowledge only fills him with more guilt, because he’s wronged her horribly. He’s wronged Ruby, too, but with Regina he’s committed a breech of trust it’ll take time and effort to rebuild. If at all she will let him.

When he follows her upstairs, he finds her already in bed. The room is plunged in darkness, and he drags himself miserably to his side of the bed, quietly undressing while half expecting to be sent on his way. She does no such thing, but neither does she speak.

“Regina—”

“No,” she cuts him off at once. She’s angry, or hurt—most likely both. If only he could see her, he could tell from her eyes, the set of her mouth, her stance. Her voice is hollow though, careful to give nothing away. “I will sleep next to you tonight,” she says, and hope blooms in his chest. “We will hold each other like we do, because we can’t afford to waste what time we have and I don’t want any regrets later. But I can’t talk to you right now.”

He opens his arms for her, and she settles at his side, her cheek resting on his chest, an arm around his middle. She smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, and he reeks of bad decisions. Her breathing remains laboured for quite some time until finally she drifts off.

Robin greets the rising sun with his eyes wide open and not a wink of sleep all night.

* * *

 

  
**_IV. Dies Mercurii_ **

He can tell the exact moment Regina wakes by the way her muscles, relaxed in sleep, tense palpably. His fingers tangle in her hair with rising despair, the caresses he’s painted on her skin stilling. Regina squirms, wrapping the blanket more tightly around them to stave off the morning chill.

“I’m so angry with you,” she murmurs into his shoulder.

Well, at least she’s talking to him. Somehow his heart sinks even more, bogged down in remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, because it’s true. But it’s also not enough, he knows it’s not even before she bristles and pulls away, dragging the blanket with her.

“What for?” she demands. “For keeping me in the dark? Or for thinking me some kind of monster?”

“That’s not—” She’s the furthest thing from a monster, and he’d tell her exactly that—but she’s not done.

“Robin, I ran away with you once, took Henry with us into the unknown. Doesn’t that show you how deeply I trust you, that I’m—that I’m committed to this? To us?”

“This is different, I thought—”

“You thought I’d look down on Ruby because she used to be a prostitute. Well, I’ve got news for you—she’s no lower on the social scale than you, or Belle or Ariel for that matter.”

Technically, that’s true. They’re the lowest of the low, all of them, living in _infamia_ , with no legal protections or social esteem. A gladiator, an actress, a performer—all professions that offer pleasure and entertainment to those who enjoy their work but look down on the people doing it.

“You asked me to trust you before you brought me here.” Regina takes a shaky breath, her lip quivering ever so slightly before she bites down on it. “Turns out you’re the one who doesn’t trust me.”

Now that her anger’s been depleted, her voice is small, unaccusing, resigned.

It tears him apart.

“Regina, that’s not true.” He’s reaching for her hands before he can think better of it, giving them a squeeze she doesn’t return. “I was afraid you might object to Henry, and to Roland, spending time in such company.”

She breathes a humourless non-laugh.

“All the more reason to tell me beforehand. If you had, maybe you’d know I’m not as sheltered, or as bigoted, as you clearly think I am. It’s not Ruby’s fault our society’s so fucked up the lowest prostitute earns more coin than an unskilled labourer, and I won’t hold it against her.”

“I don’t think you’re bigoted, and I know you’ve never been sheltered—even where you should have been,” he adds bitterly, thoughts wandering briefly to her cold, despotic mother and loving but meek father.

“Then why not just tell me?”

“It was Ruby’s to tell.”

“She said she wasn’t sure you wanted her to. You know my friends, Robin—there aren’t many, but you do know them.” She doesn’t seem angry anymore, merely dejected as she adds in a small voice: “I was just hoping you’d want me to know yours.”

“I did. I do.”

They’ve been planning it together, eager to twine the threads of their lives in this way. And he still wants that, godsdammit. He wants it now, for always, with her.

“So you said, but…”

“And I meant it. Regina, I know I’ve hurt you, and for that I’m sorry. I’ve made a mistake, and you’ve every right to be mad with me, but please don’t think for a moment I don’t trust you.” He brings her hand to his lips, breathes a kiss to it, then places it over his heart. “I trust you with my life, with Roland’s life—with everything I am.”

For a minute there he thinks she believes him, that he’s managed to scatter the dormant doubts he’d made come alive. Her lips twitch, her eyes flicker with light—and fall into melancholy again.

“Maybe because you don’t have a choice,” she whispers, picking at the blanket with her free hand.

It’s an old ache, one they’ve worked to soothe before, but it makes sense, he thinks with no small amount of guilt, for it to resurface now.

“But I do,” he vows, seeking her eyes, brushing hair from her forehead. “If I were to leave, if I wanted to take Roland and make a run for it, consequences be damned—would you stop me?”

“Yes, because that would be insane and you’d get the both of you killed.”

A chuckle breaks free from deep in his belly, and her sulky pout deepens in indignation. She’s fiddling with Robin’s fingers now instead of lint balls though, and it doesn’t seem to be quite the struggle for her to keep her breathing even.

“You see,” Robin tells her, stroking the apple of her cheek with his thumb, “I don’t think you’d stop me if running were what I really wanted. And you certainly wouldn’t betray me to the authorities. You’d never hurt either of us.” Her only response is a small shrug, as if that were no great feat. So he cups her face gently before continuing. “I’d wager you’d turn a blind eye for every single one of those you served at the banquet.” Well, perhaps with one exception, but he’s not worth a mention. “So yes, I have a choice. And I choose to trust you. Even when I cock it all up in the execution.”

Regina chuckles wetly—and if it isn’t the most glorious sound ever.

She tilts her head in time with him, rubbing their noses together, touching foreheads.

For a moment or a dozen, the stay like that, and just breathe.

* * *

 

There’s air again, finally, filling her lungs without burning on the way there. No tears stinging and pushing to break free either. It’s fragile yet, but it’s a start, and she’ll pick up the pieces with Robin by her side.

He’d meant well, she knows as much. She’s known it all along, and yet when he just stood there, petrified while Ruby pulled her into the kitchen to come clean, something inside her cracked open. It was an ugly reminder that they’re from different worlds, sowed doubt as to whether it’s really possible to bring those worlds together or if it’s been futile all along.

They’re fighters though, the both of them, far too stubborn to give up. Too enamoured with each other, with this family Roman law or custom won’t ever acknowledge as one. Like every other obstacle hurled in their way, they’re going to overcome this and emerge stronger.

“I like Ruby, you know,” she tells him, sighing as he draws her impossibly closer. “She’s vivacious, and brazen, and full of heart.”

“Careful, love,” Robin smirks—she can’t see it, but there’s this smug, teasing tone to his words. “Or Belle might get jealous.”

“Belle, huh?” He just gave away another controversial—for mighty Rome at least—detail, and she appreciates the gesture for what it is. And if only he knew how little reason she has to be scandalised over women loving women… “Or you?” she teases back.

Robin hums, finding that one treacherous spot in the tangled sheets and tickling softly up and down her thigh.

She squeaks—can’t help it, never could—and Robin laughs into her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His skin is cold—she’s hogged the covers in her anger. When she tries to give them back though, all her temporary exposure accomplishes is have him cosy up to her, chests pressed together. Well, if he’d rather share body heat, she certainly won’t complaint.

Kissing down the column of her neck, he runs his palms down her sides, settling on her hips and urging her up. She goes easily, crawls into his lap and crosses her ankles at the base of his back. It’s snug and, frankly, warms her up better than a blanket could when she feels them pressed together like that. Robin groans when she hooks her fingers in his hair and pulls, obeying her prompt and working his way to her lips instead. She claims him hungrily, moaning as his tongue seeks out hers. Gods, it feels good, so damn good.

“You are an absolute marvel,” he whispers, each word followed by a burning kiss—on her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and back to her lips again, where he seals it in a way that makes her head spin.

Because when he says it like that, she almost believes it.

Almost.

Not quite, because she has flaws, quite a few of them, and one in particular worms its way into her mind right now, even as Robin’s hand slips beneath her breast band. And it’s not really fair, is it, to blame Robin for keeping things from her and then do the same to him.

Breathless, she tears herself away, panting against his lips.

“I have a confession to make.”

Robin’s hand stills, then slides out of her underwear, finding safer waters.

“You’re deeply in love with a handsome thief and his dimpled son?” he muses.

“Well, yes, there’s that,” she gives him, smiling despite the flutter in her belly—the unpleasant kind this time, unlike the one he’s been stirring up with well-placed touches before. “There are things I’ve been afraid to tell you, too. About my past.”

It’s not a subject they haven’t broached before. And he’s been wonderful—not dismissive, not coddling, just understanding. He’d hear her out, not try to diminish the weight of her mistakes, but wouldn’t let her drown in their wake either. He’d point out she’s changed, made amends where she could, worked to be better—successfully so, he’d remind her fondly.

Now is different though—now it’s someone just a few rooms down.

“Ariel and I used to know each other. Back when she—” she hesitates. Does Robin know who Ariel used to be, where she came from? If Ariel hasn’t told people, then Regina surely won’t.

“Before she left her noble but misguided father,” he finishes for her. “I know about that.”

“Right. Back then.” Regina takes a deep breath. “I—wasn’t happy. Daniel had barely died, and I’d been married off to Leopold, expected to mother a girl who was nearer in age to a sister. It felt like being thrown into the depths of Tartarus and expected to act like it’s the Elysium.” She tamps down a shudder, closing her eyes for a bit and focusing on the feel of Robin’s fingers playing with the ends of her hair—a sweet, simple gesture that soothes. “Snow and Ariel were friends at the time. I used that against her—Snow, I mean. I didn’t care if I hurt Ariel in the process. She was just collateral damage.”

It’s horrible. She’s horrible. Surely now Robin sees it, too.

Her eyes take a herculean effort to open and meet his.

“You’ve made up since, yeah?” he asks, stroking between her shoulder-blades.

“With Snow? Or with Ariel?”

Robin grimaces at her, and she rolls her eyes, but fine, the distinction really makes no difference right now, he’s got a point there.

“Yes, we’ve made up,” she says, and while the fact makes her happy, the least she can do is own her actions, so she reminds him: “But it’d still happened.”

“And there’s nothing to be done about that. You cannot change the past. Only the Fates have that power, and even they are wise enough not to use it. We only have the present.”

That’s…certainly true. And she has confessed this dark deed to him, and he hasn’t rejected her—so why won’t this cold fist around her heart let go?

“You say I’m not a monster,” she begins, fumbling for the right words, “but I used to be. You say I’m worthy of love, but you don’t know half of all the things I’ve done.” He knows a lot, more than anyone, but not everything, couldn’t possibly learn every little detail for as long as they live. And that’s just it, isn’t it? “How can you be sure—?”

It’s pathetic, the way words stick to the roof of her mouth, but he seems to understand regardless.

“That I love you?” he offers quietly. “That there’s nothing in your past that would make that go away?”

“That the old Regina is gone.”

“I know she’s not,” Robin says, smiling at her no doubt bewildered expression—she didn’t see that one coming, has no idea where he’s going with this. “She’s not gone because she’s a part of you. But there’s more to you than that darkness. It doesn’t define you anymore.” He takes her hands, lacing their fingers palm to palm, holding her gaze all the while. “You are what you do. And I see you with people, Regina. I’ve seen you do this gigantic thing, save a poor sod’s life, many times over, and love his son for two when that same poor wretch can’t be around. And I see you do small things, too, ones you think no one notices. Slipping honest, down-on-their-luck vendors extra coin. Tearing your purple dress on purpose to have an excuse to gift it to your handmaid because she loves that colour but couldn’t ever afford it otherwise. Giving us choices where we’re entitled to none—such as whether to wear a mock- _pileus_ or not. That, my love, is who you are now.”

Regina is crying good and proper, tears rolling down her cheeks. She can’t help it, couldn’t stop it if her life depended on it—then again, with Robin, she can afford to let go.

“Thank you for that,” she chokes out.

Robin smiles, his thumbs swiping tears away, chuckling when she chases them with her lips and misses several times.

“Now let’s go have breakfast before there’s nothing left,” he winks, and Regina gasps in mock outrage.

“Don’t let Granny hear you insinuate she’s done a poor job taking care of her guests.”

“Oh no, I would never,” he defends with a grin. “I like my head on my shoulders where it belongs.”

* * *

 

  
**_V. Dies Iovis_**

The past few days have been pure gold.

Even with the tension, with yesterday’s fight and reconciliation. Their everyday rarely affords Regina and him the chance to fight like a regular couple. Ultimately, that’s something to be grateful for, too. These have been some of the best days of Robin’s life.

With two more ahead, he shouldn’t entertain dark thoughts. He should savour, enjoy their time to the fullest. It’s hard though, what with the Palatine looming ever closer, and with it the prospect of having to assume their roles again, no matter how briefly, before they escape back to their safe place for the rest of the too-short holiday. And then there’s Cora and her uncanny ability to hold a perpetual grudge, and Sidney the traitor, ever sniffing out and, apparently, stirring trouble.

“No dark thoughts, remember?” Regina chides mildly. “Goes for both of us.”

She’s trying, he’ll give her that. All the way from the slopes of the Aventine, she’s been chatting with Belle and Ruby, while Robin’s mind wandered. He’d never have wanted Regina to face this day alone even if he weren’t expected to be by her side, armed to the teeth and willing to layd down his life for her. It is vital that they show up at the grand mansion during the holiday—they’re already pushing it with just one cursory appearance (and without the boys, too, since they’ve refused to come and both Regina and he were happy to leave them to their fun). The chaos rampant during these festive days of debauchery is their cover. Hopefully, it will be enough.

Not to solve the whole debacle with Sidney, though.

“Tell me about him,” Ruby prompts with piqued interest when he confesses the nature of his distraction.

And so he recounts the entire fiasco surrounding Roland’s appointment as Saturnalicius princeps, the incident the previous night when Sidney’d barged into Regina’s bedroom and earned himself a well-deserved reprimand, and his suspicious behaviour overall.

“There was a time, years ago,” Regina says when he’s done, “when I thought maybe if I played my cards right I could steal him away from Leopold, make him switch sides. He was always slobbering over me even then.”

“Right, he’s a spy _and_ a lech,” Robin bursts out. “He’s dangerous, Regina, a snake if ever I’ve seen one.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” She sighs, laying her head on his shoulder while he hugs her closer for reassurance because fuck, just the thought of her risking such a thing drives him crazy with fear. “I realised a long time ago that even if I were willing to go all the way—which I’m not—he’d just use it to blackmail me. He’ll never speak.”

Just as the familiar outline of the Forum Romanum comes into view, Robin notices Ruby and Belle have stayed behind, whispering and exchanging conspiratorial looks.

“Maybe not to you,” Ruby says with a dark smile. “But men will say all kinds of things to a whore. I’ll ask around. I bet I can find some dirt on this Sidney.”

* * *

 

**_VI. Dies Veneris_ **

Sunlight barely finds its way in through the tiny window overlooking the narrow street. The room remains shrouded in soft shadows, ever changing with the progressing colours of the sunrise. Robin watches the subtle shift in lighting reflected on Regina's skin, her hair, the sheets she's tangled in.

She's so bloody gorgeous in her sleep.

She always is stunning, but there's just something about her in moments like this that tugs on his heart in a very particular way.

Her features are relaxed, with no sign of a frown on her brow (he knows what a rare feat that is, how troubled her sleep can be), and a not-quite-smile about her lips. Her eyelashes are brushing the tops of her cheeks just so, and dark locks lie strewn across the pillow, with little wisps curling at her temples. The curve of her back, slope of her neck, even the bend of her arms is endearing to him.

If only the gods would grant him more morning like this, with her in his arms (they’re cuddlers, the both of them, what with so much time spent in separation and overall isolation, they crave each other’s touch even in sleep). In his arms—or by his side, as she is now, facing him with their fingers tangled loosely between them.

They could stay like this all day…

Yet as tempting as that idea is, he’s other plans for them.

So he inches forward, fingers reaching, caressing light as a feather: first her wrist, then up her arm at a lazy, unhurried pace.

Her eyelashes flutter, but she doesn't stir.

Robin’s palm smooths over a naked shoulder, fingers plunging into silky tresses. He loves this, never could resist the compulsion to touch her hair, to comb through it, tuck errant strands behind her ears. She'd tease him about this fixation of his sometimes, but always lean into his touch with a content sigh.

Even in her sleep, she responds to it, seeking more.

So more she shall have.

The mattress sinks and creaks as he shifts. He presses a kiss into her palm, then works his way up, peppers kisses over her shoulder. She squirms, sighs, and settles back into the pillow with a blissful smile.

“Good morning, my love.”

Regina hums, nose scrunching adorably as she breathes:

“Keep going…”

Robin chuckles into the crook of her neck, a stab of lust shooting through him. It’s her husky voice that does it, and the shadow of lust in her eyes gradually replacing the dreamy haze. He promptly complies with her request, swirling his tongue in the hollow of her neck, sucking at her pulse. She smells faintly of lavender and sounds like a bloody goddess when she moans for him.

Robin’s hand ventures down her side, drags over warm, soft skin, leaving gooseflesh behind. Biting her lip, she struggles to keep quiet even as she tugs him down atop her, closer, flush together. She whimpers helplessly, arching her back, gasping when she presses into where he's hard and ready.

 “The boys,” she pants, “will be up soon.”

It’s not to put a stop to this though—quite the opposite, for she’s wrapping her legs around him and squeezing. It's bold and direct, the way she’s asking to have her aches soothed. It hasn't always been like this. While never exactly shy in her pleasure, Regina hadn’t been used to seeking it other than at her own hand. Robin's heart flutters to see her so changed, happy to have had a part in it.

“We've time,” he begins, ending on a groan because she chooses that moment to wedge a hand between them and reach for his cock, fingers curling around the length of him and stroking with purpose, and _fuck_.

Gods, has there ever been a woman more perfect (and more impatient) in this world?

They could reach that precipice so easily, so quickly. They’ve waited for days after all—months, in a broader sense. He could work her up with his fingers and tongue before slipping into her, hiking up her knees and giving her those sharp raps of his hips that seem to hit a sweet spot without fail. Yes, they could reach that precipice and tumble over, and still be in time to join the others for a late breakfast like they have done on two previous occasions.

That's not what he has in store for them today.

“Mm, the boys’ve been up for a while,” he manages between kisses. “Right about now, they’re helping Granny pack sustenance for the day.”

Regina emerges from the kiss with a soft pop, and Robin pulls away just enough that her face isn’t a blur.

“Am I missing something?” she asks, all flushed and tousled and visibly frustrated.

No wonder, his cock is rock hard right against where she’s no doubt wet and aching, and if it weren’t for their blasted undergarments, they’d already be too far gone for certain.

Why exactly aren’t they?

Right. The boys. Of course.

“Belle’s in a play this afternoon,” he explains while fighting the urge to rock into her because that’d just be fucking inappropriate right now, yeah? “Ruby’s taking the lot to see it. Figured they might as well get an early start and explore the park down by the Tiber that appears to have sprung up overnight.”

“Do these plans include us?”

“That depends.”

“On…?”

“You.” He kisses her, with no urgency this time, just a small peck before they’re smiling at each other—he, hopeful, and she, cautiously intrigued. “The boys will be safe with Granny. I promise you she’d sooner fell a Roman legion single-handedly than let anyone touch a hair on their heads. But,” he adds, leaving her an out because he’ll never have her feeling trapped, or pressured, or unheard, “if you’d rather we join them for the day... You say the word and off we go.”

“And if we were to stay behind?”

It’s a casual tone she adopts, but her eyes are twinkling, and he thinks he knows which way this is going.

“We’d have the inn to ourselves all day,” he smirks. “No rush. No one behind thin walls to hear…whatever activities we choose to pursue.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she flirts back, batting her lashes.

“Anything your heart desires,” he whispers, lips accidentally-on-purpose brushing the shell of her ear.

“All right. Just let’s see them off first, okay?”

* * *

 

They take their time, because—for the first time ever—they can.

Robin fills the room with dozens of candles while she assembles a platter of fruit, cheese, and spiced wine for when they need to regain their strength. They keep exchanging these lingering looks, love and lust sizzling between them, and it feels like Elysium already before they've even touched again.

But touch they do—light, fleeting caresses at first. She strips him of his tunic where they stand, the gesture unhurried and gentle rather than raw and hungry, and she smiles at his puzzled look.

“Is this all right?” she asks, fingers skating over his torso, tracing scattered battle scars. She means for it to be sweet, means to treat old wounds with love if she can’t erase them, but pain—even old pain—can be unpredictable, and her actions may not have the desired effect.

“Yeah,” he whispers, drawing her in by the hips.

She feels his muscles tense and relax as she goes, watches his face as he closes his eyes and savours.

“Regina,” he sighs when she intersperses her touches with little kisses.

He's so gorgeous, so wonderful, so— _oh._

He has a hand in her hair again, scratching lightly at her scalp, and the other has wandered up her side, brushing against her breast.

“Want to see you, too. Please?”

She nods, making quick work of the yellow dress with ample assistance from an ever-helpful Robin.

“So beautiful,” he croaks when she stands before him in nothing but underwear.

She loves him looking at her. It's heated, downright hungry right now, but also infinitely affectionate. It's never once made her uncomfortable, the way he likes to take her in, even before they were together like this.

Her hands smooth over his shoulders and back, tracing his spine. These scars are different, crisscrossing angrily across his back, calling forth a searing pain in her chest and a trace of guilt he's always quick to scatter. Not her fault, he'd say, and she knows it isn't, not really, but still can't help wishing she'd been there to stop it.

“None of that, now,” he chides. “Come, darling.”

And go she does, melting into his embrace, lips locking, hands exploring, skin on skin. They're still both wearing a loincloth, but it's the damn breast band that drives her to frustration, and the way Robin’s fingers are toying with the fabric while her nipples ache for attention. Yes, the damn thing must come off right away.

So she gets rid of it, flinging if to the floor with a huff.

Robin chuckles at her impatience, but his eyes turn a shade darker.

They don't get to do this, ever. Well, maybe that first time, hiding in the woods, but even that had been risky, had a certain sense of urgency. And she, for her part, while tingling with desire, had felt an equally strong urge to cover herself and all the flaws she thought would turn him off. He saw none. Today, she stands before him, his appreciative look stoking the fire in her belly, and the last thing she wants is to hide. Because they don't get to do this, ever. (Why undress completely when they fuck desperately against a mouldy wall or on a dirty floor?)

Today—well, today is new.

“Gods, you're perfect,” Robin rasps, just as he had that first time. “Let me kiss you, touch you, all over?”

It happens simultaneously—a lick of desire, the sting of tears.

“I'm fine,” she shushes, stroking his stubbled cheek, kissing his worried frown away. “Just...overwhelmed. Happy.”

She takes his hand and leads him to bed, and then she just—feels. His lips, warm and soft, covering every inch of her back in kisses. His tongue, deliciously wet, tracing, swirling, tickling over sensitive skin. His hands, chasing goosebumps, pushing at her underwear, kneading at her ass. Her body is tingling all over, wonderfully so, every whispered compliment branded onto her soul.

They’ve waited for ages for this, have all this pent-up lust to satisfy, but suddenly there is no rush.

When she turns around and lifts her hips to slide her the last scrap of clothing down and off, Robin whimpers—fucking whimpers. His cock springs from the confines of his loincloth, pressing against her hip as Robin kisses her soundly.

“I want you,” she whispers, uncaring about how needy she sounds. She can be needy with him. She can be anything she feels like with him.

“Gods, Regina, want you, too, so much…” And she can tell, gods can she tell. He’s all wound up, ready to burst, and yet— “Want to finish this first,” he swallows, drawing teasing circles around her breasts. “Please, love.”

“Yesss,” she hisses, barely breathing as those circles grow smaller, his fingers tortuously close to where she wants them, wants his mouth, too, wants him to lick and suck and perhaps even bite a little.

When he finally does touch her like she needs, thumb rubbing one pebbled nipple while his mouth closes around the other, her body spasms and arches off the mattress, a keening cry she doesn’t recognise filling the room.

It goes straight to his cock, she can feel it against her thigh now, wants to feel it _between_ her fucking thighs, so much.

“Robin—please, I—oh…”

“Patience, my love,” he pants, his face red with restraint, but soft, so soft as he looks at her.

And he sticks to his plan, bless him, even though he’s groaning, cursing into her flesh at every turn. He doesn’t cave in to his desire, doesn’t give in to her desperate pleas, until he’s lavished tender affection over every inch of her body.

Only then does he slip into her, cupping her gently first and _fuck, you_ _’re so wet, love, so perfect_ , then spilling curses as she guides him home. He fits her perfectly, like a hand in glove, like lock and key. Like it’s meant to be. He moves slowly, deliberately—savouring. The weight of him above her is so ridiculously comforting, and how can it feel so liberating to be with him like this?

“Darling, look at me,” he begs, and so she complies, drags her nose from the crook of his shoulder, and blinks up at him. “You are—gods, you are—everything.”

“You, too,” she whispers, shifting just so, and fuck, shit, this is good, he’s dragging against her sensitive nub at every thrust, gods, this is wonderful, she never wants it to stop.

“Like that, love?” he asks, but he already knows, he knows her body by now, knows what she needs.

She nods frantically all the same, a throaty _uh-huh_ all she can manage, and urges him to go faster, kissing and groping wherever she can reach, whenever her brain’s not too addled by pleasure. He’s devouring her neck, driving her mad with these sucking kisses, and she’s close, so close, but not quite close enough.

“Robin, I need—”

“I’ve got you, Regina, I’m here,” he assures her, vows to her as he picks up pace, hips pistoning into her in that sharp, delicious way that makes her toes curl just so. “Gods, love you so much—come for me, darling.”

And that’s all she needs, suddenly soaring, suspended in a moment of utter bliss. There’s nothing else, not a care in the world as she clutches at him, cries out for him, feels him reach his peak, too, spilling inside her with a series of grunts and curses and professions of love.

“That was…” he trails off as she kisses over his heart. He’s plopped on his back now and she’s shamelessly using him as a cushion, the last of her pleasure still pulsing through her, her limbs still reduced to jelly. She feels utterly debaucherous and absolutely fantastic—and they still have the day ahead of them.

“Not a bad start,” she grins up at him, and he raises her a saucy smirk.

It’s the day of Venus, indeed.

* * *

 

**_VII. Dies Saturni_ **

The last day of Saturnalia is for gifts.

People are teeming in the streets much like the first six days, but the energy is quite different. Certainly one happens upon a drunken party now and again as they cling to every last hour of it being socially acceptable to drink and gamble in the streets. Most folks, however, are milling about with sackfuls of varying sizes, knocking on the doors of friends and neighbours to exchange small tokens of affection. Terracotta figures and taper candles are staples of the season, with Hansel and Gretel still busy selling the last of their supply on the temple stairs.

The twins are chewing on raisins and dried apple from the holly-tied package of sweets when Regina hands Gretel a cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Keep it safe,” she tells the girl, slipping it into her pocket, and Robin smiles and catalogues the moment for later, for when Regina’s self-doubt needs an antidote again. “There’s a note inside with a jeweller’s name—he’ll give you a fair price. This one,” she winks, or at least attempts to in her own adorable way, “ _will_ feed a village.”

So will Granny’s cooking, apparently. She’s making a bit of everything any of them enjoyed particularly well the past week—which means practically everything. Robin looks sideways: there’s Roland, sticky-fingered and munching on yet another piece of honeycake, holding Regina’s hand, and on her other side walks Henry, enthusiastically detailing the local myths he’s collected from everyone during their stay.

It’s early yet, but the sun is out, a pale disk in a pearly sky, measuring the hours they have left. They walk briskly—they’ve plans yet, so this trip is to be made as quickly as possible.

An unexpected sight greets them in front of the house—leaning against an ornate column is none other than—

“Ruby? What are you doing here?”

“Waiting to give you your gift.”

“I thought we agreed gifts at lunch.” That was the plan after all—to get it over with here first, then return to Granny’s for the rest of the day.

“This is a different kind of gift,” Ruby grins, turning to Regina. “Your mother’s here.”

“That’s…not exactly my idea of a pleasant surprise,” Regina mutters, one hand gripping Henry’s shoulder and the other wrapping around Roland protectively. Everything about her reaction makes his heart overflow with affection for her, makes him want to put his arms around all three of them and never let go.

Yet Ruby is positively beaming, acting like a person with a job well done.

“It is this time,” she insists. “Right about now, Sidney’s coming clean about planting those marbles and framing Roland.”

As if on cue, Cora’s voice fills the street, her words jumbled but her fury unmistakable. She’d going to want to have Sidney punished, no doubt. In this case, Regina doesn’t seem inclined to stop her mother from intervening with her household, and Robin can’t say he blames her.

“How did you pull this off?” he asks, utterly mystified.

“Let’s just say he’s had a few embarrassing brothel visits,” Ruby mouths quietly, covering Roland’s ears with her hands, “and he’d like them kept under wraps. Very particular taste. Don’t ask.”

“I sure as Tartarus wasn’t going to,” Regina says darkly.

Truer words were never spoken.

“You’re bloody brilliant—thank you, Ruby.”

“Hey, what are friends for, right? See you later—and don’t forget my gift.”

Definitely not, he thinks—not that anything can match the one she’s just given them.

* * *

 

Granny’s has never felt more packed than it does now, even though it’s still the same number of people. There’s more food somehow, and a whole lot more clutter. Candles flicker all over the room, every surface covered in droplets of wax. Belle and Ruby are cuddling by the fire, chatting with Ariel and Eric sprawled on a moth-eaten couch, and Granny is playing checkers with Hansel and Gretel.

Roland is admiring his new bow—a much needed acquisition, since he’s outgrown his old one—and at the same time _oohing_ and _aahing_ over Henry’s gift.

“This is amazing!" Henry gushes, running the dusky marine shell (from Robin) over a stretch of papyrus, then grabbing the pen (from Regina) to see how it speeds along on the smoothened surface. “Does it really come all the way from Egypt, Robin?”

“That it does,” Robin confirms, giving him a hearty pat on the back. “I had it stashed in a box in Granny’s pantry, along with a dozen other belongings. It was just waiting for a worthy owner. I’m glad you like it, Henry.”

Henry’s response comes in the form of a tight hug Robin returns with equal vigour.

Regina’s heart is full.

Here she is, surrounded by people who love and accept her, and not a single twist of anxiety to vex her on this glorious afternoon. Her troubles are just a hill removed but seem far, far away. Right next to her, clasping her hand, is the man she loves, loving her back, loving her son, too, as she does his. It’s perfect, just perfect like this. There’s nothing more she wants in life than moments like this one shared in a place that feels like a true home.

But she hasn’t opened her gift yet, and the boys—all three of them, really—are eyeing her with rising anticipation.

“Go ahead, Mom,” Henry urges.

“It’s from all three of us,” says Roland, bouncing back and forth.

With a single glance at Robin, she unties the holly holding her bundle together. Out slips a necklace, a simple chain gilded gold and on it a pendant with three interlocked rings. One for each of Regina’s three men.

“I love it,” she whispers, touched beyond words.

She kisses Henry and Roland on both cheeks, telling them how much she loves them, how proud she is of them, and then Robin puts the necklace on for her, stealing a kiss of his own (although can you steal something that’s been given to you?) before he disappears with a wink in the kitchen.

“We have something for all of you,” she tells the room at large, “Robin and I.”

That gets everyone’s attention just in time for when Robin appears from the pantry, lugging a stone bowl. It’s filled to the brim with crushed ice sweetened with honey, and has the whole room erupt in cheers. Roland, possibly the known world’s biggest crushed-ice enthusiast, cheers the loudest, and soon enough is up to his ears in the delicacy.

Regina savours the treat, relishes the moment. There had been so much that could have gone wrong in the past week, and gods know some of it had. It’s been everything though—more than she’d dreamed it would be. This, she thinks, is almost a worthy conclusion.

Almost.

Robin’s present sits heavy in her pocket, burning a hole in it for days now.

“Come here, you,” she beckons, then chuckles into his enthusiastic (and rather sticky) kiss, chiding him none too seriously: “That’s not the gift I had in mind right now.”

Robin frowns, squeezing her in his arms.

“But you’ve already given me my gift, back at the house this morning.”

“The gold-tipped arrows? Those were partly for show. This,” she retrieves the carefully wrapped package from the folds of her skirt, “is all yours.”

He takes it with nothing short of reverence, tracing the outlines as he turns it over in his hands. When he finally reveals its contents, he stares at it for a moment before his face splits into a nostalgic smile.

“Happy Saturnalia, Robin.”

“Is this—?”

“The pin you stole from me the night of your first fight in the arena.” Even half-delirious, he couldn’t deny his ways, had plucked it right from her hair as she was tending to his injuries. So Regina had the golden pin fashioned into a brooch, for him to carry the memory of that fateful moment on him.

Robin tips her chin up, bumping their noses together, and kisses her softly. Everything about their exchange is soft right now: his lips, the calloused fingers cupping her face, even his stubble tickles instead of scratches. She’d been unused to tenderness for so long, as much as Robin’s been lavishing her with it,  at times it still catches her by surprise, makes her heart stutter in awe.

“Hey…” he whispers, brushing a thumb across her cheek.

She’s never even noticed the tear escaping.

“It’s nothing,” she sniffs. “I’m fine. It’s just…” She looks around, takes it all in from the cosy corner they’ve cocooned themselves in. “Here, with your old friends, for the first time I truly feel like part of your life, you know? Your real life, before the sentence.”

He hums his understanding and peppers her face with tiny kisses until she’s giggling.

“I want you to stay in my life always, Regina,” he tells her, and she will never ever tire of gazing into his eyes and seeing love reflected back at her. “Not because you’re a noblewoman and I’m your slave, not out of gain or gratitude—even though I feel the latter, and always will, deeply so. Just because I love you.”

Even her fingers seem to dance in giddy celebration as she pins the brooch to his tunic.

“And I love you—thief.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Saturnalia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771315) by [ankareeda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ankareeda/pseuds/ankareeda)




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